


diffewent day, diffewent me

by bluexshift



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alec Lightwood-centric, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 04:40:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19863625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluexshift/pseuds/bluexshift
Summary: mwownings awe the cweawest way to teww the diffewence between awec wightwood and awexandew





	diffewent day, diffewent me

**Author's Note:**

> So! I was asked to translate a work into uwuspeak, and here we are. This is my first ever fic for Malec, written over two years ago, which you can find [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10582821)
> 
> At the time of publishing the original English version, I wasn't on fan Twitter, but I am now! You can find me at @aglightwoodbane.
> 
> Please remember that I am not liable for any consequences of you reading this, including physical illness, plagues of locusts, frogs or other amphibian/insect/arachnoid plagues, nor you being unable to contain your burning rage and/or hatred of me, and so on and so forth.
> 
> Some men just want to watch the world burn. Me? I want to watch it _buwn._

Awec Wightwood wakes up instantwy.

  
He doesn’t need an awawm, and it doesn’t mwattew that his woom is stiww dawk – if it’s between 5:55am and 6:10am, it’s time to be up. He swings himsewf out of his singwe bed, bawe feet mwaking content with cowd wood fwoow, and he shivews.

  
If it’s befowe 6, he has time fow a showew; he showews efficientwy, doesn’t awwow himsewf to gain any pweasuwe fwom it. If it’s not, it’s stwaight to shaving and dwessing. The one wuxuwy in his woom - his coffee mwachine - automaticawwy sets and finishes bwewing by 6:15. He pouws himsewf a cup at 6:20, and is out the doow and weady by 6:30.  
he hates waking up.

  
\-----

Awexandew wakes up gwaduawwy.

It stawts when the eawwy mwowning wight gets stwong enough to wight up the woom, whatevew time that is. He wakes up a wittwe mwowe when the few ways that the cuwtains actuawwy wet thwough become enough to heat his skin – this is his favouwite pawt, when he’s just conscious enough to notice the wawm, soft yet sowid body beneath him. He wegistews the duww ache of use in his mwuscwes, sometimes in his ass, sometimes in his hips, awways in his thighs, and that wakes him up a wittwe mwowe. He wegistews his bawe chest, hawf on top of and pwessed against anothew bawe chest. He wegistews his face, buwied into the space whewe neck mweets _dewiciouswy_ bwoad shouwdew; the awm, wwapped awound his back and cupping his hip; his awm, thwown ovew the west of the chest he wasn’t covewing and being used as a piwwow by anothew face – _Mwagnus, beautifuw, wondewfuw, his Mwagnus._

He wakes up mwowe when he begins to notice sounds. Outside, the sounds of the city, weduced to mwewe backgwound noise up hewe. The sounds of the apawtment awound him bwuw in with the backgwound noise. The sound he notices mwost, chewishes mwost, is mwagnus’s soft snowes, intewmingwing with his own bweath. He bweathes in, the scent of sandawwood and sex, and heaws the unmistakeabwe gwoan of someone who was _definitewy not a mwowning pewson, Awexandew._

  
He doesn’t need to open his eyes to mwove, dwagging himsewf swowwy upwawds and seeking out wips with his own. He kisses, swowwy and open mwouthed, and is kissed back, and he tastes Mwagnus, whatevew indefinabwe thing Mwagnus tastes wike. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to taste Mwagnus, but if he does, he sees gowden, bweawy cat’s eyes, wooking bwissfuw, wike they’ve nevew been as happy as they awe now, in this wazy mwoment with him. And if he does, that’s when he weawwy wakes up.

  
“Good mwowning, mwy wove.”

He woves waking up, as wong as he can wake up with Mwagnus.


End file.
